by Lee Stephen
“She will remain in your custody until she is needed elsewhere.”
“Wait,” said a still-flustered Tiffany, “I’m to remain in his custody?”
“She must never leave your sight.”
Travis lost it. “That’s impossible, man! What if I gotta work on the ship? What if I gotta take a dump?”
“Make it work.”
“Make it work?”
Tiffany quickly backed away. “Hell no! I’m not gonna sit by this guy while he takes a dump!”
“See?” proclaimed Travis. “She’s gonna run off first chance she gets!”
“I am not here to give you solutions,” answered the sentry. “She is to remain with you at all times. Ensuring that happens is your concern.”
Travis threw his hands up. “How the heck am I supposed to do that? Handcuff myself to her?”
The sentry turned and walked away.
Pointing at Travis, Tiffany slowly stepped back. “You listen to me. I’ve been shot down, shipped to Russia, stripped naked, and interrogated by a creeper.” She slowly backtracked. “I am not staying with you! I’m going after my friends.”
“You can’t, Tiffany.”
“Watch me.”
“News flash! You’re in Novosibirsk. What are you gonna do, hail a cab?”
Her eyes narrowed. “I’ve already stolen one ship today.”
“Look,” he said exasperatedly, “I know things are crazy for you right now—”
“You know?” Her volume rose; she pointed to the west. “I just watched my entire platoon get shot down! I just watched half my friends die, and the other half is still out there. And you think you know?”
He rolled his eyes.
She inhaled sharply. “Did you just roll your eyes at me?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Yes, you did.”
“No, I didn’t.”
She sneered back. “You totally did. You did like this,” she said, rolling her eyes in demonstration.
“What? I so did not!”
Her eyes narrowed scathingly. “You’re a sucky eye-roller and a liar.”
“Okay, time out. Let’s start this thing over,” Travis said. “I’m not your enemy. I’m not gonna try to shoot you, I’m not gonna try to strip you—”
“Hell no you’re not gonna strip me!”
His hands flailed. “Stop! Just stop! Let me talk without interrupting—”
“You were talking about stripping me!”
“I said I wasn’t going to strip you!”
She yelled, “Then why’d you use that word if it wasn’t on your mind?”
“It was contextual reassurance!”
“What?”
Travis’s palms hit his face.
All of a sudden, a gloved hand grabbed Travis’s right wrist. Tiffany’s wrist was clutched, too. Before either of them could react, they were thrust together as handcuffs snapped closed between them.
Travis’s eyes widened. “No freakin’ way!”
The sentry nodded pleasingly. “That was a really good idea.”
“No, no, no, no, no, no, no!” exclaimed Tiffany. “This is not cool!”
“I wasn’t suggesting that you actually handcuff us together!” said Travis.
“He said he had to take a dump!”
Travis shot her a stupid face. “I didn’t say I had to take a dump, I said I might have to take one in the future.”
“Oh, what-ever, as if there’s any chance you’ll never have to take a dump again in your life!”
“Well hell, it’s the same for you!”
“Oh yeah? Well I can hold it.”
“For freakin’ days?”
“We’re not gonna be together for freakin’ days!”
The sentry quietly snuck away.
* * *
ROOM 14 WAS buzzing with activity. The moment word leaked from Max and William that the Pariah had returned, every single Fourteenth operative—the lone exception being Travis—flocked to Room 14 in search of answers. The burden of finding them fell on Dostoevsky.
Several things had been relayed to Dostoevsky from the Citadel, all of which he conveyed to the Fourteenth. Several transports had been shot down. Klaus Faerber’s son was aboard one of them. The Pariah was among the interceptors. That all of the interceptors, the Pariah included, had made a beeline for Novosibirsk immediately after their attack was as damning as evidence could be against the base known as The Machine. And according to the Citadel’s claim to Dostoevsky, that was exactly the way EDEN wanted it.
The key was the Pariah itself. It had been shipped off for repair, away from Novosibirsk. It was never returned, the word from EDEN being that it was unsalvageable. Clearly, it had been salvaged.
The question was why?
It smelled of a setup. Novosibirsk had been lied to by EDEN, that much was provable—at least from Novosibirsk’s point of view. But if this was indeed a setup, EDEN would undoubtedly deny that the Pariah or any vessel from Novosibirsk had ever been shipped to them for repair. And if that was believed by the rest of the world, as it likely would be, then only one truth would be plainly visible to them: Novosibirsk had just killed Klaus Faerber’s son.
“So if everything in the world points to us,” David asked, “how are we supposed to prove that it wasn’t us?”
Dostoevsky answered, “A woman pilot flew the Pariah back to The Machine. I don’t know who she is, or if she is involved in anything—”
“She’s not,” Max tactfully interrupted. “Just trust me on that one.”
The fulcrum nodded. “Regardless, she may be the key.”
“So Thoor could just show this girl to the rest of the world, right?” asked David. “She can tell them what really happened.”
Hesitating, Dostoevsky said, “At this time, that is not what the general wishes to do—not yet. We do not know if EDEN knows she is here. I think the general wants to let EDEN accuse him first, so that when she is revealed, it will be in the wake of their deception.”
“We need to tell Scott this,” said Svetlana. “He needs to know what is going on.”
“He will find out soon enough, if not by us, by the rest of the world. If Faerber’s son was indeed on one of those ships, this will be a global event.”
“Hell o’ a way to make the world turn on yeh,” Becan said. “Kill the son o’ its most beloved hero.”
“If it’s a set-up, it’s genius,” said David.
Svetlana spoke again. “Yuri, we must tell Scott the truth. If he hears this from the news, he will not know what really happened.”
“We cannot do that, Sveta. It could compromise his cover. He will find out the truth, rest assured.”
“He knows what they told us about the Pariah,” said David. “That it couldn’t be repaired. He’ll know something’s not right.”
The door to Room 14 was suddenly and wildly flung open. A calamitous racket of footsteps and shouts followed.
“It’s gotta be there, it’s gotta be there!”
“Ow! You jerk, stop moving so fast!”
“Time is of the essence. I have to move fast!”
After a flurry of bewildered stares, the occupants of the lounge rose from their chairs and rushed to the bunk room, where Travis was frantically tearing through one of the closet toolboxes. Handcuffed to his wrist was the battered blond pilot.
“I got it!” said Travis, pulling a handsaw from the toolbox. He and the woman separated their handcuffed wrists as Travis began to furiously saw.
“What the hell?” Max asked.
Stopping the saw motion, Travis inspected the cuffs, then chucked the saw back in the closet. “Veck!”
“Travis, what is the meaning of this?” Dostoevsky asked firmly.
“They cuffed us together!” answered Travis. “A sentry did it. He said I was responsible for watching her!”
Tiffany waved timidly at the Fourteenth. “Hello.” She returned to Travis. “Okay, seriously. Fix this now.”
“T
ravis, why are you watching her?” asked Max.
Throwing up his free hand, Travis answered, “I don’t know! Why does anything here happen the way it does? Why’s the food suck? Why are there Nightmen? Why do we have a dog?” He pointed at Flopper, whose tail was wagging merrily.
“Oh, he’s cute!” Tiffany said.
“Whoa!” said William. “Is that the chick from the comm?”
“Yes, Will, this is the ‘chick from the comm.’”
“Dude,” William said, silently mouthing to Travis the word hot.
Tiffany was deadpanned. “I could totally just read that.”
Dostoevsky was less than amused. “Travis, stop digging around. We need to discuss this.”
“No,” Tiffany said, “he needs to cut this thing so I can go get my friends!”
William’s eyes sparkled. “She’s got friends?”
“Not those kinds of friends, idiot,” said Travis.
Max cleared his throat. “I don’t want to rain on you guys’ parade, but you ain’t cuttin’ through those.”
“What do you mean?”
“Those are tungsten carbide. Unless you got a diamond hacksaw sittin’ around, you might as well start rehearsing your vows.”
Shaking her head emphatically, Tiffany said, “There is like, no way I’m staying attached to this dork. There’s gotta be a key.”
“Yeah, there’s a key,” Max answered, “but if a sentry hooked you guys up, count me out of the team tryin’ to find it. I don’t feel like getting shot in the face.”
Covering his face, Travis fell on his rear. As soon as Tiffany’s hand followed, she yanked it back. “Stop pulling me!”
“I can’t help it!”
“Why are you giving up? Go talk to that sentry guy!”
Travis growled loudly. “Max is right. If a Nightman has the key, there’s no way we’re getting it back. They’d shoot us for asking.”
“Okay,” said Tiffany, eyeing everyone, “what the hell is a Nightman?”
Silence fell over the room—no one wanted to answer. After several seconds, Dostoevsky addressed the group. “Max, Sveta, David, stay. The rest of you, go find something to do.”
The unselected operatives groaned.
Tiffany turned, jerking Travis’s wrist. “You heard the man, let’s go.”
“Not you,” the fulcrum said irritatingly. “You two are obviously staying.”
The blonde’s eyes narrowed.
Within a minute, the unselected operatives had left Room 14, leaving Dostoevsky, Max, Svetlana, David, and the linked Travis and Tiffany alone. They moved to the lounge, where Travis and Tiffany claimed a table together. To ensure their privacy, Dostoevsky closed and locked the lounge door.
“All right,” said the fulcrum. “Talk.” His focus fell on Tiffany. “What is your name?”
Her face fell. “No. Freaking. Way. I am not doing this again!”
Dostoevsky raised an eyebrow.
“When I got here they stuck a sack on my head and dragged me down to some musty old cellar where they were asking me all these questions about who I was, what happened, and if I was trying to bring down the ‘Nightman sect,’ whatever that’s supposed to be.”
Waving his hand, Dostoevsky said, “I am not going to do that to you, I promise. I am asking who you are because I want to know. I am Yuri Dostoevsky, acting captain of the Fourteenth.”
“That’s not a captain’s uniform.”
He eyed his black jumpsuit. “I am what is known as a fulcrum. It is a position of leadership among the Nightmen.”
She ugh-ed.
“If I may?” David intervened. “I’m from EDEN, too, Miss...” He eyed her nametag. “...Medvedev?”
“Yeah,” she sighed. “This is totally not my uniform.”
“Right. Anyway. You’re probably wondering what’s up with all the black people everywhere.”
Her brow furrowed. “What black people?”
“No—no, not those kinds of black people.”
“See what I’ve been dealing with?” Travis asked.
David continued. “The people wearing black uniforms. They’re called Nightmen. They used to be a Russian military sect, disbanded a long time ago. As you can see, they’re not exactly disbanded today.” She seemed to be listening. “The Nightmen run this base, even though it belongs to EDEN. People like us, in EDEN, are kind of like...guests.”
“More like hostages with room and board,” mumbled Max.
“The captain here,” said David, pointing to Dostoevsky, “he’s a Nightman, too. He’s a fulcrum—it’s like a rank.”
She raised a free hand. “What makes them different from EDEN?”
From the other side of the lounge door, William yelled, “Because they murder people!”
David pounded his fist. “Damn it, Will!”
Kicking at the lounge door, Dostoevsky said, “If I hear any of you in that room again, you will all get beaten!” Footsteps could be heard retreating back to the hall. The bunk room door closed.
Tiffany looked mortified. “Nightmen murder people?” She stared at Dostoevsky.
“That probably wasn’t the best way for you to hear that,” said David.
“Not all Nightmen are like you think,” Dostoevsky said with resignation.
Tiffany pushed back her hair, dragging Travis’s hand along. “I just want to go back to Richmond.”
Upon mention of the base, David blinked. “You came from Richmond?” She nodded. “Some of us came here from Richmond, too! You ever heard of Falcon Platoon?”
“Umm, yah. That’s totally my unit.”
David’s face fell. “Wait a minute. What?”
“My unit, my friends. We’re in Charlie Squad of Falcon Platoon.” She blinked. “Hey, wait a minute, are you Remington?” At the mention of Scott’s name, Svetlana’s eyes widened.
“Remington’s our captain!” said David. “You mean to tell me you’re part of Colonel Lilan’ crew?”
Tiffany nodded emphatically. “That’s why we have to get back! Everyone who survived is hiding in the marsh. If we don’t rescue them, they’re gonna die!”
“How many survived?” David asked. “Did Lilan and Tacker make it?”
Frowning, Tiffany answered, “The colonel did. But Major Tacker was riding with Delta. They didn’t make it.”
“My God.” David ran his hand over his head. “Who else made it? Those were our friends.”
“Cat made it, so did Javon, Tom, and Donald. And Lilan. That’s it.”
“If you mean Donald Bell, I knew him. Lilan’s the only other name I recognize.”
“I think a lot of people have changed since you’ve been there. They either got transferred, or got preggers, or whatever.”
David tilted his head strangely. “Someone got pregnant?”
Before either of them could speak further, Travis cleared his throat. “Okay, this is a wonderful conversation and all, but can we please focus on this?” He lifted he and Tiffany’s cuffed wrists.
“Yeah,” said Tiffany, “we need to be separated so I can go get my friends!”
David looked at Dostoevsky. “Captain, I know this isn’t exactly convenient, but if there are survivors on the ground, they could be more evidence that this is a set-up against Novosibirsk.” He hesitated. “And those are some of my friends, too.”
Max folded his arms. “Not to cut off the good captain before he can answer, but EDEN sent Superwolves to take Tiffany down, Dave. That airspace is gonna be infested.”
“There’s gotta be a way!” said Tiffany. “We can’t just leave them there.”
Closing his eyes, Dostoevsky lowered his head. It wasn’t prayer—just contemplation. After several seconds, he looked up again. “There may be a way.” As the others watched him expectantly, he turned toward the exit.
“Where you goin’?” asked Max.
“To talk to General Thoor,” the fulcrum answered.
* * *
THOOR WAS IN the middle of an em
ergency meeting with his counsel when Dostoevsky marched into the Throne Room. The others present—Oleg, Antipov, Marusich, Saretok, and Krylov—turned to regard the once-revered fulcrum.
“I thought I smelled something,” said Oleg in Russian.
“You come here unrequested,” Thoor said coldly.
Ignoring Oleg, Dostoevsky focused on Thoor. “I come to offer a solution.”
“I offered him a solution a long time ago,” said Oleg, “but he didn’t let me kill you.”
“Strakhov, quiet,” Thoor’s gaze returned to Dostoevsky. “To which problem does your solution pertain?”
“The rest of the unit from Richmond—Falcon Platoon,” Dostoevsky said. “There is a way for us to rescue them undetected.”
Several members of the counsel swapped smirks. The general responded, “Do you not think we have considered using our Noboat?”
It was indeed the solution Dostoevsky had in mind. The general went on.
“It presents too great a risk. We cannot lose it to interception, and even if we do rescue the survivors and return, EDEN will have detected its materialization. If they trace it to us, it will be used as additional evidence against us.”
Dostoevsky shook his head. “We must try, general. These survivors can vouch for the actions against us.”
“We already possess one survivor,” Thoor said. “We need no others. She alone is evidence of their treachery.”
Looking at Dostoevsky, Oleg spoke conciliatorily. “For the record, Yuri, I agree with you. The rest of our brethren do not share our opinion.”
Slamming a fist into his palm for emphasis, Dostoevsky kept on. “This is important, general. One testimony is insignificant, but many will make an impact.”
For several seconds, the general said nothing; he simply stared at the impassioned fulcrum. Finally, calculatingly, he canted his head. “If one testimony is insignificant, why do you infect my people with yours?”
It took a moment for the low-blow to set in. Dostoevsky’s eyes narrowed.
Oleg spoke again. “I agree that there is more to gain than to lose by rescuing the survivors. Even if they detect dematerialization, how will they know that it comes from us? Unless they see us leave the ship, they will only be able to claim that the Bakma briefly surveyed the scene. That is not unlike things the Bakma have done before.”
